


Sense of Time

by anneapocalypse



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 12:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8102800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneapocalypse/pseuds/anneapocalypse
Summary: Connie watches South sleep, and thinks of things to come.





	

South snores like an out-of-tune Warthog, especially when she falls asleep on her back. Her lead lolls a little to one side, and Connie feels the urge to lay a hand on the side of her face, turn her gently upright again.

South sleeps heavy, but wakes to touch. Some mornings Connie wakes bristling with irritation at the incessant beeping of South's alarm, only for the rough snore to stutter out and South's eyes flutter open at the lightest brush of her hand. South grunts sleepily, seemingly oblivious to the alarm and only when Connie jerks her head toward the bedside will South mutter "Oh" and slap the buzzer into silence. Then she'll pull Connie down on top of her and they’ll be scrambling late to the mess for breakfast.

South sleeps now, and Connie lies awake.

Unable to resist, she lets her knuckles brush South's cheekbone. The snore sputters but does not stop and South turns her head and mutters something in her sleep, something that sounds like _Fucking-_ which would be like South, cursing all the way down to her subconscious.

Connie swallows, hard, feeling the silence of the room under the ragged edge of South's breathing. The steady hum of the ship's systems sustaining them on all fronts, the dry coolness of the recycled air, the embrace of artificial gravity, the precisely-controlled temperature. South flat refuses to turn the thermostat above 19C and Connie makes do in sweatshirts. Compromise. They’re roommates. Roommates who leave one bunk empty half the time.

There is a countdown in her mind. Even without the presence of an AI, she feels it tick away. Always had a head for numbers like that, a sense of time. An internal mission clock. Five hours, thirty minutes, give or take.

The scrapyard, and she will have to make contact.

They have never made promises, she and South, and Connie can’t decide whether to be thankful for that, because spoken or not, something is going to be broken. Something is going to be very, very broken.


End file.
